


But let him not spoil our night

by eggwriter



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Danatole in the beginning, Ends Fluffily Because I'm Like Midas With This Shit, Fyotr, M/M, Porn with Surprising Amounts of Plot, Slight Hatesex, clubs, mlm author, rough, takes place probably at Marya's club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggwriter/pseuds/eggwriter
Summary: Anatole disappoints Dolokhov's evening at the club, but Dolokhov refuses to let the night go to waste.





	But let him not spoil our night

**Author's Note:**

> hi. hello. it's me. back at it again with comet rarepairs. actually idk how rare this is? 
> 
> anyways this fic has allusions to helene and dolokhov having fucked (AND ONLY THEY this is a no inc*st household) but i imagine them to both be gay and just. both having not realized it yet when they sleep w each other. the fic really doesnt focus on that but just throwing it out there

At first,  Pierre had refused the idea of following Anatole and Dolokhov on their little quests to brothels and clubs – and those establishments that were a combination of both. Dolokhov found it a little endearing, how shy Pierre was, as half nude men and women in exposing silk danced and sang and drank.

 

Now he had given in, and was sitting next to Anatole and Dolokhov in the troika as they kissed and bit at each others mouths, so ferociously they nearly fell into Pierre’s lap, and Pierre (bless his heart) tried to shove them away when they got too close.

 

Balaga, however, had learned to ignore them as they did whatever in his troika (as long as they didn’t attempt to take his reins). It was however very, _very_ rare that Dolokhov and Anatole got past their second layer of clothing when still on the troika, especially now in the middle of the freezing winter and the dark-blue night.

 

“Fedya, Fedya, my Fedya,” purrs Anatole into his ear, in French, as Dolokhov kisses his Adam’s apple, “I want to take you tonight–”

“ _Oh_ –”

“I want to over you this time, I want you to tremble around me and gasp like I do for you,” he goes on and Dolokhov almost shudders.

Dolokhov is quite certain Pierre doesn’t hear the filth Anatole mumbles, those coos are all for him and the only thing that Dolokhov can hear over the thundering of the troika and the whipping cold wind.

 

Anatole doesn’t take command particularly often, and when he does it is an event that Dolokhov treasures. He cherishes being on top as well, he will never tire of taking Anatole, but the controlling lilt that enters Anatole’s tone and how his stamina exceeds Dolokhov’s own so that a few minutes are spent with Dolokhov howling as Anatole finally reaches climax – yes, he likes that a lot. Anatole is just as rough on him as Dolokhov is to the prince, and he’d have it no other way.

 

The troika arrives nearly too late, Dolokhov is ready to tear either of their pants off with Pierre watching if he so desires, but before it comes to that the club comes into vision and all four of them leap out, Anatole nearly hanging off of him.

“Drinks, drinks, drinks, fellows!” called Balaga, trying to wrap his small arms around Pierre’s broad waist. Pierre patiently let Balaga try, his soft brown eyes looking as concerned as ever but letting himself be lead into the club nonetheless.

 

The club had a double set of doors, most useful in the deep winter when the first set of doors (which were thick and red) kept the first snow and cold out, and then the second set of doors (which were dark and thin) that served as another barrier.

 

Balaga and Pierre got to drinking immediately. Balaga kissed Pierre on the cheek and then he rushed off, and Dolokhov watched with great amusement as Pierre with a bitter expression walked past half-nude women and men to fetch a bottle of whiskey. Pierre, with his height and width, looked like a mountain in a velvet vest while the rest of the crowd were at least five inches shorter than him and all barely clothed.

 

It was hilarious, Pierre clearly did his best to tear his vision away from the clubs less dressed members, some of which were draped over the various couches and in the middle of actual sex.

 

“What a fool,” laughed Dolokhov as Anatole bit his earlobe. “Do you think he ever gets his cock wet when we visit the clubs? I certainly hope he does, the poor man deserves something.”

“I don’t _care_ about Pierre right now,” murmurs Anatole and grinds against Dolokhov’s ass, and Dolokhov’s breath hitches. “I want _you_ , I wanna see my cock in your _mouth_ –”

“I need a drink,” Dolokhov whispers and bucks against Anatole’s hips, “just a drink–”

“ _Hurry_ , I want you–” purrs Anatole again and drags his teeth over Dolokhov’s neck, and Fedya nearly moans outright.

“Yes, yes I will–”

Dolokhov broke himself away from Anatole’s arms and gave the most indignant yelp when Anatole slapped his ass, sending him rushing to the little bar to fetch wine. Anatole so rarely is dominant and Dolokhov relishes every second of it.

  


It was difficult to wade through the crowd (Pierre moved through with ease, but Dolokhov was smaller), and while Pierre was incredibly careful Fedya wasn’t afraid to stomp on the occasional toe if someone stood still.

 

Fedya adored this club – with all likelihood it was a somewhat illegal establishment with the alcohol they sold, but still managed to be quite attractive with its dim light and surprisingly low risk of pickpocketing. It was plenty expensive, it was no place that Dolokhov would frequent on his lonesome. He could afford it only by leaning on Pierre and Anatole’s wealth.

 

Dolokhov grabbed a small bottle of wine and turned back around to Anatole, and found that he was already being undressed.

Anatole was already between a man and woman, one biting his ear and the other feverishly kissing his mouth, and Dolokhov stopped in his tracks at once, cold and angry and amazed that Anatole managed to whore himself out in a moment of _seconds_.

 

“I think I’ve just seen Balaga,” says Pierre and interrupts his train of thought. “He was holding the largest bottle of vodka I’ve ever seen and being carried off by a man and woman, both about twice his size, and I find that a little concerning since he is meant to drive us home–”

 

“I slept with your wife,” says Dolokhov abruptly, his mood already ruined and seeing no need why he needs to be pleasant.

 

Immediately Pierre freezes and shuts up for four entire seconds, while the rest of the club continues its music, clinking and moans mixed with laughter.

Fact is Fedya hasn’t bedded Hélène in months, they had stopped a few weeks before Anatole drunkenly told Dolokhov he loved him. A few weeks before that confession, both Hélène and Dolokhov came to the conclusion _this isn’t good for us, we don’t want this_.

 

But Pierre doesn’t need to know the details, Dolokhov just wants to see him angry.

 

“I know,” Pierre answers chillingly softly, and Dolokhov turns to see Pierre with his mouth thin in cold rage.

“You knew? And yet endure my presence?”

“You’re still my _friend_ , and I don’t have many of those. I will have to ‘endure’ your presence or all I’ll have for company is Anatole. And he is–”

 

Pierre trails off into silence when he sees Anatole’s head get shoved down between the woman’s thighs, and both he and Dolokhov avert their eyes; Pierre in embarrassment and Dolokhov in  fury.

 

It is not _just_ that he’s envious, Anatole had told them within the first few days of their relationship that with Dolokhov’s consent, Anatole would still seek pleasure in brothels and other encounters. Dolokhov had been more than fine with it (he himself didn’t mind the occasional change in partner), but when he was _right there and available_ –

 

“Do you think he does that on purpose?” asks Pierre, both of them still looking at the carpet. “I never see him – eh, giving himself away like that when you aren’t present.”

“Oh, does he not _whore_ himself out like that when I am away?” asks Dolokhov in return, finding it a little hilarious how Pierre winces at the word as if they are not at a glorified brothel.

 

“Come with me,” says Dolokhov. “There’s too much noise, let’s go somewhere more private.”

 _And away from Anatole as he gets taken from both ends_ , he thinks to himself.

 

Pierre follows him. Meek, soft, idiot Pierre who is the biggest man Dolokhov’s ever met – he follows obediently after Dolokhov even when he is silently enraged. They reach the second floor, where it is nowhere near as wild and with far less people.

 

“Would you care to make Tolya envious?” Dolokhov says now when he is audible, and Pierre narrows his eyes.

“Explain.”

“I’d love to,” says Dolokhov and grabs Pierre by the collar of his shirt, yanking him down and kissing him on the mouth for a prolonged time, not quite slipping in his tongue but giving Pierre the ability to pull away.

 

Pierre does not.

 

Instead he closes all distance between them and kisses back, firmly if a little clumsily, and Dolokhov laughs inwardly and nips at Pierre’s bottom lip. Pierre grabs Dolokhov’s back with strong hands, grappling at his hips and touching the back of his neck, so clearly desperate for touch and Dolokhov grins into his mouth.

 

He’s been thinking about this for a while. Once he’d asked Hélène how Pierre is in bed, and she had slapped him. So Dolokhov had never found out and instead be left to wonder, if Pierre bent Hélène over and fucked her until her thighs shook, or if Pierre was meek and let himself be pushed around like with Dolokhov now.

 

It is far past thrilling to have Pierre at his mercy like this, simply following him along as Dolokhov leads them to one of the secluded rooms with a perfectly square bed, that squeaks gently as Dolokhov shoves Pierre onto it.

 

––

 

“I hoped you’d want to do this,” Dolokhov purrs, straddled over Pierre’s waist and tearing off his vest and grinning like a gargoyle. Pierre’s movements are fuelled by both fury and lust, egged on by Dolokhov biting at the crook of his neck and nipping at his ear. Oh, Pierre _hates_ it, he hates how enthusiastic Dolokhov is, he hates that he himself is hard and wanting, and he _loathes_ Dolokhov’s handsome chuckles.

He claps his hands onto each of Dolokhov’s hips and he flips them around so that Fedya is beneath him, looking up at him grinning and with his lip caught between his teeth.

 

“I always wondered, you know,” says Dolokhov and enthusiastically tosses his legs around Pierre’s waist. “I wondered if you would be more controlling in bed, or perhaps gentler.”

“You haven’t given me any reason to be kind, Fedya,” Pierre mutters and kisses him again, and jolts when he feels Dolokhov sneak a hand down to his firm groin and squeeze.

“Good,” replies Dolokhov. “I don’t want to be treated like glass.”

 

Pierre presses a kiss onto Dolokhov’s chin and then continues down his throat, feels the man’s soft beard scratch against his face and does not care, he instead nibbles kisses into the skin exposed by Dolokhov’s shirt. Heavens, he is handsome – hairy and slightly muscular, occasional scars of war and Pierre’s lip wobbles just the smallest amount.

He likes men, he’s known this since he was sixteen and studying in France and gotten so flustered he had almost cried when the local baker had pinched his cheek and sweetly called him _grosse souris_.

Beneath him, Dolokhov cackles and brings him back to the angry present.

 

“What?” he snaps and Dolokhov gives a devilish smile and tightens his legs around Pierre’s waist, grinding them closer together.

“You haven’t forgotten where to put it, Petrushka? It’s been a long time for you, hasn’t it?” coos Dolokhov. “Certainly I must’ve be keeping Hélène busy enough–”

“Shut up,” growls Pierre and ignores Dolokhov’s persisting rubbing against his crotch, lightly scratching at Pierre’s arms and his sides.

“Is that how she is with you? Does she demand and hiss like she does with me?”

 

Pierre says nothing, heart pounding furiously and chest feeling so very cold in spite of how treacherously warm his groin is. Dolokhov chuckles again.

“Did I strike a nerve? Does she ride your face and– _ow!_ ”

 

Pierre grabs Dolokhov by the hair and shoves him almost face first into the covers, and Dolokhov pulls his legs off Pierre’s waist so he isn’t turned so uncomfortably.

  


“ _Oh_ ,” Dolokhov says with soft realization, cheek against the mattress and his bright eyes looking up at Pierre as best he can. “Oh, you’ve never–!”

 

“I most certainly have,” snaps Pierre; as prudish and shy as he is he has some experience, with both men and women – although not with Hélène, and Dolokhov seems to sniff out this fact like a bloodhound.

“But never with _her_! Oh my God, Pyotr, have you not consummated your own marriage?”

Pierre clenches his jaw tightly, cheeks burning and Dolokhov hollers with laughter.

“You haven’t! Oh you poor man, not even your own wife?”

“I hate you,” whispers Pierre and Dolokhov laughs again, trying half-heartedly to buck loose.

“Are you making up for it now, by taking me?” Dolokhov goes on and he looks like a  wildcat – sharp grin and coy eyes, and Pierre loathes him; he hates his smile, how he looks pleased enough to purr, he hates how he always knows everything and his soft voice–

  


“Are you going to take me like I took your wife?” Dolokhov asks sweetly and Pierre shoves his groin against Fedya’s ass, getting the smallest inhale but otherwise Dolokhov doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Pierre growls, and Dolokhov does not oblige.

“If you are, then she never wants it like this–”  
“Fedya.”

“She doesn’t care for me nearly enough for me to stick her ass in the air and– okay, okay, _okay, okay sorry sorry Pierre_ –”

Pierre shifts his weight to the hand on Dolokhov’s head, pinning him down enough for it to hurt and the threat of being crushed turns out to be enough for Dolokhov to finally shut up.

“Sorry,” squeaks Dolokhov and Pierre softens his grip enough to not actively hurt him as he leans over, caging Dolokhov beneath his weight.

 

That gets a reaction – Dolokhov gives a little gasp again, and Pierre rocks his groin against Dolokhov’s ass and Fedya damn near mewls, so he does it again and grinds them tightly together. It’s a blunt sort of pleasure, one hand firmly by Dolokhov’s neck and keeping him pinned so he can rut against him and he hears Dolokhov’s breath become more labored.

 

“Are you going to behave, Fedya?” Pierre asks softly, right into his ear, and Dolokhov groans. “Because this was your idea, to make dear Tolya envious, in case you need a reminder.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll behave, just– Pierre I think I may fall over if you do not stand up a little…”

Pierre remembers that he has Dolokhov pinned with his back to Pierre’s chest, keeping him down with his weight alone, and with a scoff he sits up and leaves Dolokhov free to move.

 

Dolokhov turns around and reaches for the nightstand, fetching a tiny purple bottle and opening it as he tosses his legs around Pierre’s wide waist.

“Well? Make yourself useful, take my pants off?” says Dolokhov and Pierre does, leaning down and pulling down his trousers and underwear in one swoop. At once Dolokhov pushes a slick finger inside himself and Pierre stares.

“Shush, c’mere,” coos Dolokhov and shoves the little bottle into Pierre’s hands, still working himself, and Pierre briefly marvels at how small Dolokhov’s hand is compared to his.

 

“Oil yourself up, Petrushka,” mumbles Dolokhov in his ear and Pierre obeys as if hypnotized, jaw tight and fucks into his own hand. “I’ve thought about this for years, before you married, how you’d be in bed–”

“That’s filthy,” Pierre almost whimpers and Dolokhov nips at his jawline.

“–do you think Anatole has wondered too? You think he’s wondered about you inside him? Would you like that?”

Dolokhov most graciously stops talking before Pierre has to force himself to answer, lying down on the mattress with his legs spread and wiping his oiled hand off on the sheets.

–

“Don’t get scared off now, Petya,” says Dolokhov and smiles, and Pierre is looking down at him with the widest eyes Dolokhov’s ever seen. His glasses are gone, Dolokhov has no idea when that happened, and the single window in the room gives enough light for Pierre’s eyes to glisten like that of a deer.

“Have you forgotten how to do it?” asks Dolokhov and grabs Pierre by his dick. “Do you need me to guide you, Petrushka?”

“Terrible man,” grumbles Pierre and takes Dolokhov’s wrist in one hand, with the other he lines himself up at Fedya’s ass and then he pushes himself in to the hilt.

Dolokhov had several comments in mind, all relating to Pierre’s perceived lack of experience, and all of which are void the moment he enters him.

 

It’s not that Pierre’s cock is too much, he’s definitely nicely endowed. But Dolokhov has his fair share of experience; it’s just that Pierre is such a huge man and one of the strongest men Dolokhov has ever met.

Once Pierre had lifted him up by the waist when he was in the middle of a joyous state of intoxication, both arms around Dolokhov’s waist and keeping him a good four feet off the ground as Anatole howled with laughter.

Pierre puts just as much strength into fucking into Dolokhov, moaning brightly and staying seated him in as Fedya gasps and clutches at Pierre’s shoulders. Then Pierre begins a slow pace of rocking in and out, and Dolokhov’s thighs tremble in exertion.

 

“Wait,” breathes Dolokhov and then finds his voice, “Pierre, wait, wait-“

Pierre freezes up, still deep inside him, and Dolokhov gives a little wheeze and wraps his legs around Pierre more comfortably, so it feels less like he’s being split in twain. He’s so damn wide – Dolokhov nearly has to spread into a dancer’s split.

“Is that good?” asks Pierre with a gentle warmth in his voice.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” replies Dolokhov and kisses him, and then squeaks when Pierre lifts him by the hips so that only Dolokhov’s head and his shoulders are still on the mattress.

 

The showmanship of strength gives Dolokhov a spinning feeling in his chest, how easily Pierre has him lifted up as he ruts into him gently. His hands are warm and on each of Dolokhov’s hips,  and so very welcomed in the cold air of the room.

 

“It’s a disgrace we didn’t do this earlier,” Dolokhov mumbles after a moment. “You’ve always been so pretty, you know that, right?”

“I- thank you?” Pierre says sounding incredibly flustered, and Dolokhov can’t help but burst into a smile.

“Tell me, your past lovers,” Dolokhov goes on and sees Pierre’s expression sour immediately. “Did they compliment you like this? Did they call you handsome? Did they squirm and tell you your cock was big?”

 

Pierre grabs both of Dolokhov’s wrist and pins them, and at once they are face to face and heat twirls in Dolokhov’s girth.

“Is it too much for you to be quiet for just a second?” Pierre replies and his voice is breathy. “Can’t you behave for _just_ a moment?”

Dolokhov has no response for that, half because he didn’t expect Pierre to snap back and half because every time Pierre moves it rattles his thoughts. Pierre is so goddamn _filling_ , and has Dolokhov in almost a vice grip as he fucks into him faster now.

“I–” Dolokhov starts and then clenches his jaw painfully tight because it won’t be long now.

“Nothing but teasing, both you and Anatole – neither of you are ever just _quiet_ –”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dolokhov agrees and clenches his fists, both still trapped in Pierre’s grasp. “Yes, yes we never are–”

“And _ah_ if you’d just, just quit acting like two wolves pursuing me,” Pierre rambles on and Dolokhov’s eyes flutter open to see the man’s face contorted with strain and bliss, “constantly undermining everything I say and oh _fuck_ , _fuck, Fedya–_ ”

 

There is no time to appreciate the rare occasion of Pierre cursing, because then Pierre cries out and grabs Dolokhov by the hips, pulling him in as close as they can ever get. Fedya pinches his legs tight and wraps a free arm around Pierre’s shoulders as Pierre comes all the way inside him, and Dolokhov follows immediately after with a dry sob.

 

They stay like that, frozen still with Pierre curled around them both and Dolokhov clinging onto him and his head tucked into Pierre’s chest. A second or two later Dolokhov lets go and gingerly falls back onto the mattress, hot and limp and tensing only a little when Pierre pulls out of him and lies down as well.

 

“God in _heaven_ ,” Dolokhov hisses out and besides him Pierre huffs out a laugh.

“That was _fantastic_. Is that how it always is? With you and Anatole – is it always that good?” asks Pierre silently, and Dolokhov turns to look at him. His bones feel like half-molten wax and his head feels heavy, and he sees Pierre looking just as spent as Dolokhov is.

“Most of the time, yes,” responds Dolokhov. “But it’s rare for Anatole to be on top, and neither of us are as strong as you.”

Pierre turns to meet Dolokhov’s gaze and most surprisingly gives a little snorting laugh and smiles a little flustered. Dolokhov frowns.

“What?” he asks, at once self conscious, and Pierre brushes his thumb against Dolokhov’s cheek.

 

“Did you cry?”

“What? No! Why?”

“Your black thing– the kohl– it’s smeared all over your eyes.”

Dolokhov sits up and rubs his wrist against his cheek, and kohl and sweat rubs off on it.

“It happens,” he explains and Pierre is still laughing.

“You look like one of those little American bears, those that cleanse themselves.”

“…a _raccoon_?”

“Yes! One of those!”

Dolokhov slaps him on the chest and Pierre continues laughing.

––

 

“You’re the width of an ox,” complains Dolokhov once they’ve left the room and cleaned themselves _somewhat -_ Dolokhov wiping oil and cum off his ass with a fancy cloth certainly for that exact purpose, and Pierre trying to pretend he’s modest. He can’t help glancing down at Dolokhov, who has just the slightest waddle and steadies himself on the railing of the stairs.

 _He has such pretty eyes_ , Pierre thinks to himself and smiles softly.

 

“If it’s any consolation, I’m having trouble walking as well,” he admits. “Are we headed back home?”

“We are headed to mine and Anatole’s apartment,” answered Fedya as they navigated through the club. “The madame will absolutely exist on extra pay if we spend the night. Also the beds are good for fucking, not sleeping.”

“You can tell the difference? No, what about our troika driver?” continues Pierre and Dolokhov waves his hand in disregard.

“We’ll find another one!”

“And Anatole?”

“We’ll find another one! Now let’s leave, I need to wash.”

 

Dolokhov reaches to pull the inner set of club doors open, and Pierre wraps an arm around his waist. Fedya put his hand over Pierre’s, and they together went into the cold winter night.

**Author's Note:**

> today's my 1 year anniversary of seeing tgc on broadway so that's… well. thanks for reading. i actually illustrated this fic for myself bc im better at drawing than i am writing and i was stuck in a writer block and youll have to kill me/ask nicely me to get it


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